Protected
by trufflemores
Summary: 5x15 reaction fic. Spoilers for "Bash." The first night after the attack. Somewhat fluffy, somewhat angsty, mostly something in between. TW: implied assault. Klaine. COMPLETE.


**Disclaimer**: I do not own Glee or any of its characters; Ryan Murphy and Co. hold that honor. I'm simply writing this for fun, not profit.

They go home together. Not because home is a loft with two roommates and a bed big enough for the two of them. They go home together because home is being huddled against Kurt's side to keep him warm even though they take a heated cab to avoid being around other people. Home is helping Kurt up the stairs carefully so he doesn't need to ask, an arm wrapped around his waist to keep him from stumbling on any of the steps. Even with Artie and Rachel trailing after them, home is still Kurt and Kurt alone.

Blaine can feel some of the tension seep from Kurt's shoulders as soon as they're inside. He doesn't stop to take his coat or shoes off, following Kurt's momentum towards the bedroom. Once they're ensconced behind the privacy curtain, he slips his arm away from Kurt's waist and focuses on peeling off Kurt's jacket instead, folding it over a chair before crouching down to slide off his shoes. It's oddly serene, undoing the laces and sliding each boot carefully over the arch of each of Kurt's feet. It almost feels normal until Blaine lets his hand linger against Kurt's foot and remembers the hospital sheet draped over it mere hours before.

Before he can let the thought pull him down in that dark place again, he unfolds from his crouch and sets to work picking out a suitable pair of pajamas for him instead. Kurt watches him with dark, tired eyes until Blaine holds up a gray t-shirt and a pair of white shorts, nodding his affirmation. He rises wordlessly to his feet, hanging onto Blaine's shoulders carefully as he shuffles out of his pants, legs shaking slightly from fatigue. Holding onto him and helping him into the shorts, Blaine quickly unbuttons his black button-up and slides it off his shoulders, resisting the urge to flinch at the bruises marring his perfect, wonderful skin.

"Can I get you anything?" he asks softly, grazing a gentle kiss against his jaw because he can't help himself. It doesn't seem real after the hospital that Kurt is actually _there. _Battered and bruised and exhausted but still alive; still fighting.

Kurt shakes his head slowly, lifting his arms to let Blaine slide the shirt over them, helping him shuffle back against the bed with his hand against his spine.

It's only once Kurt's settled against two of the fluffiest pillows and letting out soft sighs of contentment as Blaine tucks the sheets around him that he feels fingers curl around his wrist, loose at first before tightening meaningfully. "I know," he promises, lifting Kurt's hand to kiss his bruised knuckles so very lightly. "Thirty seconds, honey, I promise." He sets Kurt's hand aside gently, aware of Kurt's sleepy, half-lidded gaze on him as he shucks off his own coat and shirt while haphazardly shimmying out of his pants and digging up a soft t-shirt (for Kurt's benefit, of course; he doesn't want to hurt him at all) and a matching pair of sweat pants.

By the time he climbs into bed beside Kurt, Kurt's already half-asleep, hand sliding forward to curl around Blaine's as Blaine squeezes it back gently before letting it go and looping his arm around Kurt's back instead. He scoots as close as he can and winces sympathetically when Kurt cringes as he lifts his head before resting it against his chest, cheek pressed to his heart and one leg slotted easily between Blaine's, protected, safe.

Reaching up to card his fingers through Kurt's hair, Blaine listens to Kurt's breathing even out as his eyelids flutter closed, tiny, barely-there snores tapering off the end of every breath. Not daring to move, Blaine lays in silence for a countless period of time, not bothering to lift his own head when he hears the privacy curtain shift back.

"Blaine?" Rachel's voice is soft, hushed, and he appreciates the courtesy as he tilts his head to regard her, his thumb brushing gingerly over Kurt's ear. "I know it's late," she says, stepping farther into the room and skirting their clothes to deposit a thermos on the nightstand along with a bottle of water and two orange prescription containers. "I picked up these. He won't need the first pill until morning. There's chicken noodle soup in the thermos, if he wants it."

Blaine nods, struggling to put his gratitude into words when so many other emotions are still clamoring to the surface, threatening to overwhelm him. "Thank you," he manages at last, soft and precise. "I'm sorry that this – happened."

"Don't be," she says, and he's reminded exactly _why _Kurt loves her because even with her Broadway career at stake, when it counts, she puts Kurt first. She might be fiercely protective of her dreams, but she's equally protective of her friends when they need her, and Blaine can tell that she wants to do more even as she settles for a nod and says simply, "I'll be in my room if you need me." With one last glance at Kurt, she's gone, leaving Blaine alone with his thoughts as Kurt sleeps on.

. o .

Hours later, he's close to sleep himself when he hears it: a soft whimper, buried somewhere against his chest as Kurt shifts in his sleep and presses his face against Blaine's shirt. Caught between awareness and sleep, Blaine struggles to process what's happening as one hand comes up to cradle Kurt's head, rubbing soothingly at his scalp. "Shh," he hushes, shuffling him closer when a whine scrapes past Kurt's throat, one of his hands fisting in Blaine's shirt as his forehead scrunches in dismay. "Hey, hey, it's okay. You're okay. I've got you," he promises, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.

"Honey," he croons, cradling the back of Kurt's head when he feels tears seeping into his shoulder. "Angel, it's okay. It's okay." Shifting around until he can wrap both arms around Kurt's back, he presses his cheek against his temple and murmurs, "I'm here, I'm here, I'm here," until at last the tears abate and his soothing fingertips are answered with a questing echo against his own skin, Kurt's fingers loosening their death grip on his shirt to brush over the warm skin of his exposed hip instead.

His breath hitches in his chest when he feels Kurt slide his hand under his shirt and rest it against his side, eyelids flickering open as he mumbles, "B?" and rubs his cheek against his chest before wincing as it irritates the bruises there.

"I'm here," he replies, but Kurt's shifting out of his grasp and sitting up with slow, stiff movements before Blaine realizes that he isn't fully awake yet. Shuffling to a seated position beside him, he lets Kurt wrap both arms around one of his as he rests his cheek against Blaine's shoulder, breath coming out in slow puffs as he sits in silent contemplation for a time. Blaine waits patiently for him to come around, humming absentmindedly as he rests his cheek against Kurt's hair.

He lets out a relieved sigh when Kurt finally releases his arm in favor of lifting his head at rubbing at his eyes. Kurt lets his head rest on Blaine's shoulder again a moment later, pain and sorrow radiating from him.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Blaine asks, turning to kiss his head, so lightly, sensitive to its tenderness. Instead of answering aloud, Kurt shakes his head, quiet and almost visibly shaken at his side. Blaine thinks about trying to coax him into lying down again before reconsidering once he realizes how tense Kurt is, knowing that he won't be able to sleep well like that. "C'mon," he urges, helping Kurt to his feet and guiding him, shuffling along, into the kitchen. Kurt doesn't resist, leaning against him a little and tilting a hip to rest carefully against the counter when Blaine releases him and pulls out a pot and grabs the jug of milk from the fridge.

Kurt watches him without speaking as he sets to work, his eyes shadowed in the darkness with only a handful of lamps and the stove to illuminate the loft.

"Talk to me," Blaine insists, once they both have a mug of warm milk and they're sitting across from each other at the table, legs tangled underneath and fingertips laced together on top.

Kurt doesn't say anything at first, staring down into his mug as if it holds all the answers before he takes another long sip and sets it down again. "I'm fine. I'm not – I don't think anything's going to happen. If that's what you're so worried about." His voice is fragile and soft, and for a moment Blaine forgets that he isn't wearing a Warbler's jacket because he _remembers _that vulnerability, that hesitation and quiet need to speak even though the words hurt.

"What was it about?" he asks, pressing the point because he knows that Kurt needs to say it.

Kurt meets his gaze and for a moment it's impossible to read him. Then he looks down at their interlaced fingers, tugging Blaine's a little closer to himself, and admits thinly, "It wasn't him, it was – _you. _I couldn't – I couldn't reach you in time and –" He makes a soft noise like he's in pain and Blaine's chest is so tight it _hurts _before Kurt finishes, "I couldn't reach you." He sniffs, reaching up to wipe at his eyes again before Blaine reaches out and captures his hand, very gently brushing the escaped tear away.

"That's not going to happen," he promises, squeezing Kurt's hand as Kurt nods and a few more tears slip past his hold. "I promise, I won't let it happen," he insists. "I wish I had–" He stops himself before he can say the words because no amount of wishing can change the fact that he _wasn't _there for Kurt. He rubs his thumb lightly over the backs of Kurt's knuckles instead.

When Kurt takes another sip of milk, his eyelids slide shut and some of the fear on his face evaporates. Blaine's own mug is almost untouched, his stomach too knotted to indulge. He forces himself to take a sip after a moment and surprises himself with how comforting it actually is. It's still different, and he hasn't fully subscribed to Kurt's theory that it's great for insomnia, but it's good. Simple. Soothing.

"I'm sorry I'm such a wreck," he says at last, sounding almost like himself again but weary, so weary that Blaine aches for him.

"You're not a wreck," he assures, collecting his mug and placing his own with Kurt's in the sink. "You are the . . . most moral, compassionate person I have _ever _met." He holds out a hand for him to take and pulls him out of his seat, flicking lights off behind him – even Artie, resident night owl, is asleep, his privacy curtain drawn shut – as he leads Kurt back to their bedroom. It's mostly dark with only the nightstand clock and a lamp on its dimmest setting to illuminate the room; Blaine makes sure Kurt is settled in bed before he turns it off and shuffles under the covers after him, holding out his arms and relaxing once Kurt settles into them.

"You're brave," he tells him, kissing the top of his head and rubbing soft patterns against his shoulders when Kurt hums in approval. "You're kind. You're thoughtful and generous and so patient, Kurt." He presses his lips to Kurt's forehead, willing him to understand how much he means it all as he finishes softly, "And you're selfless. You're so selfless, Kurt. You're not a wreck."

Kurt threads his fingers through Blaine's shirt again, clinging once more, but heavy, sated, breathing already rhythmic as his eyes remain shut.

"You are _strong,_" he whispers against Kurt's skin, fiercely determined to make sure he _gets that _because it took him too long to realize that he wasn't broken even if his bones were. "We're gonna get through this. Together. Okay?"

It's soft and raspy with sleep, but still there as Kurt whispers back, "Okay."

Blaine huddles him as close as he dares without hurting him, and he knows that he's not suffocating Kurt when Kurt clings back just as tightly, closing his own eyes and listening to the soft, familiar sound of Kurt's breathing as he insists, "I love you so much, Kurt. I love you and I'm going to keep you safe."

"You always do," Kurt breathes, almost nostalgic, almost teasing, and Blaine chokes out a tiny sound that might be a laugh because he doesn't dare cry. "Go to sleep, baby. 'm okay."

Kurt drifts off within minutes, his chest rising and falling slowly with each breath, but Blaine doesn't sleep immediately.

He counts off the hours, wallowing in a reflective space between hyperawareness and thoughtlessness until at last, as the sun is rising beyond the thin curtain shielding them from the rest of the world and Kurt's sleep remains uninterrupted, sleep claims him as well and makes off with his fear.

It might be days before a routine is reestablished, a semblance of normalcy returning to the loft. It might be weeks before the skin memories fade. And it might be months before the attack is nothing more than a bad memory, without even scars to prove it.

But for now, sheltered in each other's arms on the edge of the retreating storm, they have each other and they can breathe and it's enough.


End file.
